"Then 'ow do I go on?" queried the visitor.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
'"Ow'm I goin' on fur compensation—fur my accident?"
The doctor repeated his shrug. "It seems to me," he said, "that your firm has treated you well. You don't know much, you know."
"I may be a fool," admitted the afflicted one, "but I know my rights. I oughter be paid some compensation fur me accident.... You won't do nothing to 'elp me, then?"
"I can't," replied the doctor. "What you want is a new head."
"Do I?" retorted the caller, flourishing his wounded arm. "That's the very thing as you'll be needin', ole sport, if ever I meets you outside. Call yeself a man? I call you a swindlin' 'pothecary. I tell you one thing, Mister Whatsitname. Whenever I 'as another haccident, I takes it to the bloomin' 'orspital. I do know that much. See?"
XXXIII
THE MOTHERS' MEETING
The morning callers at Dr. Brink's dispensary are all of them women or little children. You may suppose that the waiting-room wears then a strange and wistful air, for the men being absent, with their hoarse, funereal pleasantries, and the shuffling young boys being absent too, and the girls likewise, having carried their titters and squeaks to the factory, there is not much to amuse folk in the waiting-room.